Later, in Puebla, we called upon this gentleman, whose name we found was Quechol, meaning a bird with a crooked neck, perhaps a flamingo. He was interested in our study, and said we ought some time to visit the indian towns of his people upon the slopes of Malintzi. In January, 1900, having been delayed in our plans, we decided to spend a few days in Tlaxcala, and secured his company. Our preparations were made at Santa Ana; at the home of his parents we were hospitably welcomed, and chocolate and bread were furnished, before we started on our journey. While this refreshment was preparing, we visited the old church, in front of which stood an aged cypress tree, hung with gray moss and blazing with red flowers. We also entered some of the houses, where, on domestic looms, the serapes for which the town is famous are manufactured. We visited also a private school for girls, established by a Senor Barela, who is noted as the first to introduce the industry of weaving wool into this community. While the memory of this gentleman is held in high esteem by this people, that of his wife is by no means savory. It seems that she was an avaricious, vain and selfish woman, with no sympathy for his schemes for the betterment of the people. Her feeling was well known, and she died heartily hated by all. When the time came for her burial, the grave was prepared, and her body placed within it. But the earth twice refused to receive the corpse. It was then carried to to the Sawapa, near by, and thrown into its waters. The stream overflowed its banks, and tossed the body upon the ground; again the effort was made to thus dispose of it, but again it was thrown upon the shore. It was then suggested that it be carried to “the Cuezcomate,” an extinct geyser-crater, famous through all the country, and popularly believed to be the mouth of hell; when the body was thrown into this opening, it is said the devils were seen to swarm upward to receive it.
It was almost noon as our little party started on foot in the direction of Malintzi. Our indian friend, his brother, a white friend, our photographer, our Mexican boy and ourself, made up the party, and we were followed by three mozos on foot carrying supplies of food. We struck out over a sandy plain, where the foot sunk deep into dry sand, until we finally reached a well-built wall of stone, considered in the district a notable piece of engineering. It was constructed to turn the course of a little stream which, in times of flood, has frequently done damage to the town. From here, our trail led us on through the sandy pine-scrub, broken now and then by narrow gullies, called barrancas, with almost vertical sides. In every case, we were obliged to descend into these gullies and climb out upon the other side. After one and a half hours of walking we reached the village of San Pedro, where we stopped for dinner. The two Americans accompanying us lay down upon the ground, completely tired out, and